One Perfect Summer

slimmer punts heading upriver and coming straight towards the tour punt. Everyone gasps as the novice tries to correct himself, while one of his pals at the front of his boat madly paddles in the wrong direction. The experienced punter on the tour boat calmly punts herself and her boat full of chattering tourists away from the mayhem.
    I assumed all the punters would be male. Clearly not. I can’t help but feel a little in awe of her as she and her boat disappear from sight.
    I cross the bridge and pass through the tall stone arch into Clare College. An army-green bicycle with an old-fashioned wicker basket is propped up against the wall. Then I find myself in a courtyard surrounded by a magnificent stone building. I walk along the grass-lined path and come out onto a narrow street to see that King’s College Chapel, to my right, is open. My feet carry me in that direction and the sound of the organ fills the chapel as I queue to go inside. I wander through the doors and gaze upwards to see the masonry of the fan-vaulted ceiling. It’s almost too stunning to contemplate, as are the enormous stained-glass windows towering overhead. I make my way up the aisle and under the intricately carved dark oak screen which houses the organ and its golden pipes. The leaflet in my hand reveals that it was a gift from King Henry VIII and his Queen Anne Boleyn during the three years of their marriage, before he had her executed. I shiver. The history surrounding me is mind-blowing.
    This is my city now. And for the first time I’m starting to realise how incredibly lucky I am to be here.

 
    I return to the river the following day, strangely addicted to it now after my winter of discontent. This time, armed with a takeaway coffee and a brand-new tourist leaflet, I use my student card to gain access to St John’s College. I try not to gawp as I pass through the awe-inspiring Great Gate into what the leaflet tells me is First Court. I cross over Kitchen Bridge to the expansive lawns on the other side, pausing to admire the pretty, enclosed bridge on my right. I take a left and wander beside the river before sitting on the grassy bank with the vast neo-Gothic ‘wedding cake’ building of New Court behind me. A willow tree on the bend in the river elegantly dips its branches close to the water.
    I open my bag and pull out Virginia Woolf’s Orlando , with the intention of reading it. I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes good. I feel good. It’s been a while. I lean forward on my elbows with the book in my hands and just let myself be for a while. I finally feel like I’m making the most of this city, making the most of the sunshine, making the most of my life. Maybe it’s not too late. It had felt like it was.
    It’s even sunnier than yesterday and it seems like the whole of Cambridge is competing for space on the water. I smile to myself as I witness punts resemble bumper cars, crashing into each other as novices unsuccessfully attempt to navigate the river.
    A tour punt comes along and I forgo my reading for a minute and listen with interest to the guide, a tall, broad, blond guy in his early twenties, who’s dressed in a uniform of white shirt, cream-coloured shorts and canvas boat shoes, minus socks.
    ‘St John’s was founded by Lady Margaret Beaufort, the grandmother of Henry VIII, on the site of a twelfth-century hospital. Up ahead you can see the Bridge of Sighs, which bears little resemblance to its namesake in Venice, aside from the fact that they are both enclosed. Some say that it’s called the Bridge of Sighs because the students have to pass over it to go from their halls of residence to their examinations . . .’
    Another tour punt comes along and it takes only a moment for me to recognise the guide, the red-headed guy from yesterday who pretended to bang his head on the bridge. This time he’s manning one of the larger punts and has a boat full of Asian tourists.
    ‘You again!’ he calls out cheerfully, thrusting his pole into the riverbed and coming to a steady stop. He nods at the unread book in my right hand and then behind me at New Court. ‘Do you go to John’s?’ That’s how the locals refer to it; John’s not St John’s.
    ‘No,’ I reply as several sets of eyes regard me from on board his punt. ‘I’m at Anglia Ruskin.’
    ‘Nice.’
    ‘What about you?’ I ask, awkwardly aware of his boat full of tourists, but not wanting to seem rude and uninterested. ‘Are you studying